


i knew your love (before i kissed you)

by jdc15



Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Hollstein - Freeform, Hollstein AU, Smut, in other news i am a hoe for soft carmilla, there are 2000 words of smut in here whooooops, top!Laura
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-25
Updated: 2018-01-25
Packaged: 2019-03-09 10:58:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13480080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdc15/pseuds/jdc15
Summary: “‘I’m going to make the hot chocolate,’ she says quietly, with a nuzzle to your ear, and presses a barely-there kiss to the back of your neck before she leaves you to gaze at the painting and wonder how she manages to see you like this, so differently from the way you see yourself.”--Carmilla owns a small bakery. Laura walks in. [AU]





	i knew your love (before i kissed you)

**Author's Note:**

> Recommended playlist (and title inspiration): Lovesick – Banks

-  
Thanks to a sudden bout of freezing rain, the first day of the new year is incredibly slow for business.

You've had all of two customers since you opened at seven o'clock that morning, and you'd taken to doodling aimless designs on the blank order forms out of boredom, unused to having so much downtime in the normally busy bakery.

You spare a single glance upwards when the bell on the door chimes, wondering who could possibly be out and about in this weather at noon on a Monday, and do a double take when you catch sight of the girl who walks in.

She's tiny, barely over five feet tall if you had to guess, with honey-blonde hair pulled back into a sloppy bun and somewhat baggy clothes hanging off her slender frame. Her shirt, emblazoned with the logo for the local radio station, sports a large orange paint stain, and her pants have rips in them that look more like they are due to excessive wear than a fashion statement.

She looks a little bit like a hobo but somehow she still manages to capture your attention, and you find yourself struggling to look away as she wanders through your shop, every now and then pausing in front of a basket to read the printed ingredients. She dithers for several more minutes before finally settling on a half loaf of cinnamon raisin, and you're treated to a gleaming smile when she hands it to you at the counter. You offer a polite nod in return.

"It'll be three dollars, ma'am," you say, and the corner of her mouth lifts again.

"'Ma'am?' I must be going gray to have finally graduated from 'miss,'" she grins, rummaging through her somewhat ratty canvas purse and handing you a five.

You aren’t entirely sure how to respond; your normal clientele are not talkative in the slightest, so the fact that this girl is doing anything other than offering a mumbled thanks and leaving hastily is already out of the ordinary. "Sorry, you don't look...old?"

You want to kick yourself as soon as the words leave your mouth but she doesn't seem to be offended. She laughs, a bit too loudly for the tiny shop. "I wish I did sometimes. I've been cursed with the eternal face of a twelve-year-old."

She actually winks at you, and combined with the bright smile (seriously, she could be in one of those toothpaste ads) that hasn't wavered since she arrived, you realize that you are wildly and inconveniently attracted to her.

This almost never happens to you; in fact, you pride yourself on being remarkably cool under stress, but you actually fumble and drop the key to the cash register, and when you straighten up again you just know your face has gone bright red. To her credit, she holds her tongue as she scoops up the bread and offers a little wave.

"Thank you," she says kindly. "It was nice meeting you...?"

She trails off, and it takes a full and painful five seconds before it clicks that she's asking your name. "Carmilla," you choke out, and you really hope she doesn't think you're mentally challenged, though you wouldn't blame her, given your staggering ineptitude when it comes to basic social interactions.

"Carmilla," she repeats, and you’ve never liked the sound of your own name as much as you do when it rolls off her lips. "That's really pretty. I'm Laura."

You nod, again, like some sort of inane bobblehead with a loose spring. "Nice to meet you."

You extend a hand with her change but she shakes her head. "Keep it," she says with another wink, and heads for the door before you can protest.

-

You hate yourself a little bit for how distracted you are after the girl leaves. You mess up simple transactions and make careless mistakes for the rest of the day until you're so tense and aggravated that you lock the doors an hour early and spend the extra time fiercely reorganizing the supply closet.

It's past six by the time you've scrubbed the floors and replaced peeling labels, and your arms are aching from hauling around the heavy and unwieldy mop bucket. You drag a hand across your forehead and lean against the door, letting your head drop backwards until it thumps against the cool metal.

-

By the time your alarm rings at four a.m. the next morning, you've successfully banished all thoughts of the peppy, gorgeous girl who graced the shop the previous day. You roll out of bed and into the shower, wondering, as you always do, how you managed to land a career that forces you up at such ungodly hours, and why you can't ever learn to go to bed early enough to make it not-quite-as-excruciating.

An hour later you're unlocking the front door to the bakery, shaking snow out of your hair with a huff. You can’t stand the cold, but you especially hate the snow and how it melts into ice cold water and finds its way down the back of your neck.

You hang your coat in the office and start up the oven at once, before you roll up your sleeves and set to work. The pastry cream is thrown together first and stored in the fridge before you pull out enough of the bread dough that's risen overnight for a few loaves. 

You take extra care with the cinnamon raisin, arranging it neatly in its pan before you pick up your knife and slash a new design into the top, a small flower instead of the usual crisscross.

-

There are no more customers in on Tuesday than there were the day before, and you’re glad that you only made half batches of everything. You while away the first few hours by reading the daily paper and resolutely not watching the door.

It’s not like she would come back again today anyway; most people don’t buy a half loaf of bread more than one day in a row. You resign yourself to another day of aimless tidying, and you’re elbow-deep in a pail of floor cleaner, half-covered in flour from tripping and falling over an open bag in the supply closet, when the bell over the door rings. You crane your neck to see who it is, and your heart jumps because of course it’s Laura.

Hidden behind a display of scones, you call out “be with you in a minute,” and shake your hands furiously to dry them. Forgetting about the flour, you wipe your palms on your jeans and curse when they come away sticky.   
You literally could not look any worse, and it’s at that moment that Laura peeks her head around the display and gives a cheery wave. “Hi!”

“Hey,” you say, admitting defeat to the dough currently forming all over your clothes, and clambering to your feet. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” she says, and her eyes drop to your pants, which you are sure look absolutely horrendous.

“I was cleaning the floors,” you say in an attempt to explain away your appearance. “And I, uh, spilled some flour. You know, typical early-morning bakery activities.”

You cringe inwardly at this but she’s already laughing, and it’s so warm and bright that you feel yourself relax enough to finally let your guard down, just a little bit. “Did you like the bread?” you ask.

“The—oh! Yes, it was incredible,” she says. “Would you judge me if I told you I already finished it?”

“I’m in no place to judge,” you say wryly, “based on the number of pastries I eat every day. It’s a pretty big problem, actually.”

Her laugh rings through the air for a second time and you can’t even bring yourself to care about the dopey grin you can feel plastered across your face. “It doesn’t seem to have stuck to you,” Laura says, with a poorly hidden glance up and down your figure.

You turn away quickly to hide your face under the guise of retrieving the mop bucket. “So can I get you another loaf? Or did you want to try another kind?” you say, all in one breath.

“Well...” she starts. “I’m a vegan, so there’s only so many things I can buy, I think.”

“Oh,” you say, rather uselessly. “So no animal products at all, right?”

“Right,” she nods. “Honestly, this is the first bakery I’ve found that has something I can buy that actually tastes good.”

“Thanks,” you say, flattered. “Maybe I’ll look into some new recipes.”

“Oh, I don’t want you to change anything on my behalf,” she says quickly. “Really, I could buy this cinnamon raisin every day for the rest of my life without a single complaint. That’s sweet of you to offer, though.”

She smiles encouragingly and you wish she’d stop being so nice because you’re finding it incredibly difficult to avoid saying something embarrassing. You head to the back to dump the cleaning bucket and find her waiting at the counter, studying the loaf she’s holding.

“This is so pretty,” she says, and you can’t help but feel a little smug. You knew it was a nice flower. “How do you do the fancy designs?”

“It’s called scoring,” you explain. “It’s actually pretty easy, you just cut the top of the loaf with a knife before you bake it.”

“Would you show me how, sometime?” she asks hopefully, but when you hesitate she backtracks at once. “Sorry. That was a weird thing to ask.”

“No, no, it’s okay,” you assure her. “I’d be happy to show you. Do you have a minute now?”

-

You give her a quick tour of the kitchen, proud to finally have an excuse to show it off. The bakery may be small but the kitchen is nothing less than state-of-the-art, and she looks appropriately impressed by the steel appliances and tall shelves of equipment. “Did you build this yourself?” she asks.

You shake your head. “My mother did. It was a family business.”

“Does she still work here with you?”

“No,” you say, pulling a raw loaf out of the cooler. “She passed away, actually. Two years ago.”

There’s a pause in which you flip the dough out into a pan and discard the plastic wrap, before a small hand brushes your forearm and you jump, not expecting to find her as close as she is.

“Mine too,” Laura says quietly, and her eyes are wet when you glance up to meet her gaze.

“How long ago?”

“Thirteen years ago. I was nine.” You reach out for her hand and she lets you, squeezing hard as she clearly tries to compose herself. “It shouldn’t still affect me this much, I know,” she says with a sniff, and you shake your head firmly.

“Grief is different for everyone,” you tell her. “Don’t stop yourself from feeling it. That’s what I did, and now...I don’t feel much of anything.”

You aren’t sure why you’re saying any of this; you feel closer to her for sharing such a similar loss but even so you begin to regret opening your mouth. You start to take a step back, distancing yourself, but she holds fast to your hand and when you look at her, curious, she steps into your space and presses her lips to yours.

It’s chaste but sweet, and she holds still for a few seconds before pulling away and cupping your face in her hands. “Did you feel that?” she whispers, and for the first time in weeks, you smile without even thinking about it.

-

She doesn’t kiss you again but she does maintain much less space between you while you teach her how to cut lines and patterns into the loaves. You show her the flower she’d liked, and you both laugh when she doodles her initials into the top of a dozen rolls.

“Come by tomorrow,” you request, later, when she gathers her things to leave. “I’ll have something for you.”

-

You arrive extra early to the bakery the next morning, armed with a full grocery bag and a printed recipe. You’ve never baked with almond milk or tapioca starch before but you bought way more than you would need in preparation for any mistakes. You are determined to get this right.

The bell over the door announces Laura’s arrival at five after eleven, and she greets you with a hug. Her hair smells like strawberries and her coat is damp from the light rain.

“About yesterday,” she starts, and your breath catches, because she’s going to say the kiss meant nothing, and you’ll have to pretend you didn’t stay up half the night thinking about her, and—

“Did I overstep?” she asks, looking genuinely worried. “Because we barely know each other, and if I misread the situation at all, I’m sorry. I was just...” she blushes and looks away. “It felt like there was something between us already.”

You let out a relieved breath of air and shake your head, moving back into her space and reaching for her hand. “Laura, no, you didn’t misread anything.” You squeeze her hand in both of yours and she clings to you gratefully. “I know we only just met, but I feel the same way.”

“I have a bad habit of overthinking,” she says, cheeks still stained pink. “But I’m glad, and I really want to get to know you.”

“Me too,” you say quietly, and bring up a hand to trace the line of her jaw. Her skin is so soft under your fingertips and her eyes close involuntarily as she leans in to your palm. You haven’t said much at all but somehow you know that you’d both rather be doing something else.

You’re desperate to kiss her properly, so you stamp down your nervousness and tip forward until you can catch her lips. She reciprocates instantly and you feel her melt into you, her arms looped around your shoulders, her chest pressed close to yours. She kisses you attentively, close-mouthed until you run your tongue over her bottom lip and she opens to it with a soft sigh. Her fingers play absently in your hair, running through it until it falls from its messy bun. She breaks the kiss to study your face, tucking your hair behind your ears with a smile.

“I haven’t seen your hair down yet,” she says. “It looks so nice.”

Your hairstyle is nothing special, only a blunt cut that hits you just below the shoulder, but she’s looking at you like you’re the most beautiful thing she’s ever laid eyes on. It’s been a while since someone’s looked at you like that, and you instinctively drop your gaze, but before you can freak yourself out any further she dips back down to kiss you again. Her hands find their way back into your hair and you shiver when her nails scrape over the skin at the back of your neck.

You flatten your hands over her lower back and pull her closer into you, before you push her against the counter and slip your thigh between hers. Her breath leaves her in a surprised huff that turns quickly into a moan when you press into her. She rolls her body against your thigh, her eyes closed and her bottom lip between her teeth, and you’re a little bit blindsided by the want that the visual evokes in you.

You don’t have an opportunity to dive back in, though, because at that moment the bell on the door rings and you jump back, colossally grateful for the baskets partially blocking you from view. Laura turns to study the pastry case and you hurry to help the customer, slightly embarrassed that you forgot where you were, but not really caring much at all.

-

When the little old woman—who turned out unexpectedly astute; she’d actually winked at the two of you when you rang her up—finally leaves, you run to the back to fetch the pastry you’d made that morning from the fridge.  
“I thought we’d traumatized that sweet old lady,” Laura says conversationally when you emerge, “but she seemed pretty cool—ooh, what are those?”

“I made these for you,” you say, a little sheepishly, and hold out the plate. “They’re vegan, I swear. I bought some new stuff.”

You lift the lid and her eyes widen. “You did that for me?”

“I told you I’d have something for you,” you say. “They’re profiteroles. Or cream puffs.”

“That’s so nice of you,” she exclaims, leaning closer for a better look. “How did you pick these? Are they a specialty of yours?”

“Honestly, they remind me of you,” you smirk, and this has the intended effect.

“Are you calling me a cream puff?” she asks, in mock horror. “How dare you? I will have you know that I am feared on the streets, thank you very much.”

“’On the streets?’” You stifle a snicker and push the plate closer to her. “Whatever you say.”

She gives you a glare but it vanishes at once when she takes a bite. “Oh my god,” she mumbles, mouth full. “This is sorcery.”

You’ve been baking since you were six years old but never before have you been this proud of something you made. “Just a lot of practice,” you shrug.

“No, seriously—you are amazing,” she says vehemently, reaching for another. “Like...marry me, immediately.”

She takes another two bites before she seems to realize what she said, but before she can backtrack you swoop in and kiss her. “Marriage, already?” you tease. “I’d consider it, but it is common practice to buy a girl dinner first.”

She just laughs and pulls you in again and again until the pastry is melted in her hand.

-

Your normal steady flow of customers hasn’t quite been restored but there are still a fair few that trickle in over the next two hours, so you place a moratorium on the kissing and just talk instead.

You learn that she went to school in New York, before moving back home to Toronto for a radio internship. She studied journalism but her hobby is painting, and you choose not to disclose just how attractive that is to you.

She’s close with her father and makes time to see him every weekend, and it feels like a big deal when she offers for you to come with her; the barely three-day-old connection between you suddenly feels like it could grow into something memorable.

-

“Do you want to come to my place?” Laura asks unexpectedly, and you instantly choke on the bit of pastry in your mouth.

“We don’t have to do anything,” Laura backtracks, circling around the table with one arm raised, presumably to thump you on the back. You wave her off and reach for your water glass.

“No, it’s not...” You trail off and drain your glass. “That sounds nice.”

A smile breaks over her face and she actually bounces a little as she retakes her seat. “I can make you my famous hot chocolate,” she promises. “And really, we don’t have to do anything. I just want to keep hanging out with you and it’s cold outside and I have a fireplace an—”

“Laura,” you interrupt, biting back a grin of your own. “I would love to see your place.”

-

It’s only two in the afternoon but you lock up anyway—it’s your store, you can do whatever you want—and insist on loading her bike into your car, shaking your head at the fact that she rode it all the way here in the snow. You bundle her into the passenger seat and kiss her to muffle her protest that biking is such great exercise and “you should ride with me sometime!” because under no circumstances will you do anything resembling cardio.

Her apartment is small but cozy, a corner studio tucked away in a tall building just off the street. The furnishing is sparse with only a small couch and table in the living room, most of the available space dedicated to the easels and other scattered art supplies. A long hanging curtain separates the living area from what you assume is the bedroom.

Canvases hang on almost every inch of the walls. They’re clearly hers, and you study them with undisguised awe. She’d shown you photos of many of her pieces earlier but the small screen of her phone hadn’t come close to doing them justice.

“These are incredible,” you say, turning to face her. “Really. I love them all.”

“Thanks,” she says, and slips her hand into yours as her face goes pink. “I did one of you. Well...kind of.”

“Of me?” you repeat. The idea that you could have inspired one of these magnificent paintings is probably the most flattering thing you’ve ever heard. “Can I see it?”

She points to the wall next to the front door. The painting is of a panther, perched lazily atop a tree branch. Its eyes are deep brown, flecked with yellow, and its black fur is long and dappled in sunlight, and it is you. The piece is clearly unfinished but still the detail is incredible, every strand of fur standing out in front of the background of bright green leaves. You feel warm just looking at it.

“Why a big cat?” you ask, without taking your eyes off the canvas.

“You hate the rain,” she teases lightly. “But mostly because you’re so pretty, and you actually like being alone all day in your bakery, and...something else, I think, but I don’t know how to explain it.” You feel her shoulder lift in a shrug and reach back to wind an arm around her waist. She leans in to you, watching you study the piece for a while before she extricates herself gently.

“I’m going to make the hot chocolate,” she says quietly, with a nuzzle to your ear, and presses a barely-there kiss to the back of your neck before she leaves you to gaze at the painting and wonder how she manages to see you like this, so differently from the way you see yourself.

-

A short while later you wander over to the kitchen where Laura is busy with a pot on the stove, the smell of melting chocolate drawing you nearer to her. You slip behind her and she leans back into you as she stirs.

“Is that painting for sale?” you inquire, and she hums when your hands splay over the expanse of her belly.

“You can have it.”

“Don’t be silly,” you say as you drop your chin to her shoulder, holding her snugly from behind. “I’d buy it from you. For the shop.”

Her breath hitches and you freeze. “Unless you don’t sell them,” you say hurriedly. “I didn’t mean to assume or anything. But if you do sell them, I’d buy it.”

When she turns to face you, her eyes are soft and the corner of her mouth twitches as if she isn’t sure whether she wants to smile or not. You begin to ask what you said wrong but before you can speak she’s kissing you, still soft but so thorough that you feel a little bit dizzy when she breaks away.

“No one’s ever wanted to buy one before,” she explains. “That’s just...really nice of you.”

“Well, I would be honored to be the first to buy a painting from a future renowned artist.” You chuckle, and accept another deep kiss that steals your breath.

“Don’t keep saying things like that,” she warns lowly. “Or I’ll keep kissing you and you’ll never get to try this hot chocolate, and trust me—that would be a monumental tragedy.”

You let out a bark of laughter and step away, hands up in mock surrender. “Fair enough.”

-

The hot chocolate is, without question, the best you’ve ever had. You savor it slowly, the coconut whipped cream (which you’d never heard of before but will now occupy a space in your fridge, it’s that good) lending a subtle sweetness to the syrupy bittersweet chocolate.

“You should sell this,” you tell her. “Set up a stand at the bakery and lure people in with this magic.”

She laughs. “Oh, so you only want me around to bring you more business, I see how it is.”

“Obviously,” you tease, and she slaps you lightly on the arm.

“Rude.”

“Please, you love it.”

“Nope. You’re the worst. You should probably leave.” She retracts her arm from where it had been resting around your shoulders and makes a show of turning her nose up.

“Fine,” you say, with an exaggerated sigh, and place your mug dramatically on the coffee table. You stand halfway up but before you can go anywhere she’s tugging you back down and throwing you onto your back on the couch. She hovers over you, one leg between yours, and the couch is really not big enough for this but it isn’t like you’re going to complain.

“Not finished with me yet, huh?” you ask, raising a brow in challenge.

“Not even close,” she breathes, and drops down to meet your mouth.

The kiss is noticeably dirtier than any of the previous ones, her tongue sliding into your mouth without warning as she lifts your leg to wrap it around her hip. She grinds into you and you can’t control the moan than leaves you when her firm thigh presses snugly between your legs, and you allow your hands to wander under the back of her shirt to meet smooth skin. She shudders when you drag your nails up her spine and sits up to drag her own shirt over her head.

You prop yourself up on your elbows and she leans back down, her long hair tickling your collarbones until she reaches for the hem of your shirt and you sit up so she can pull it off. She pauses to murmur, “Is this okay?” against your mouth and you just nod and reach behind her to unclasp her bra. Her chest is gorgeous and you bend down to kiss it, proud of the squeak that escapes her when you drag your tongue over her nipple. She grinds down onto you again, the fabric of her jeans so perfectly rough against you that you get distracted for a minute, palming her breasts as you rock against each other.

You’re aching for her to be naked, though, so you reach down and pop the button of her pants, helping her out of them before shucking your own, and then you’re almost bare and you’re so wet already. You know she can feel it against her thigh but you’re past the point of caring. You’re desperate to touch her, wanting to see her fall apart.

“Can we go to the bedroom?” you husk into her ear before taking the lobe gently between your teeth. She shakes and nods, and you make your way slowly across the living room, almost tripping over the easel when she turns around to kiss you.

-

As soon as she pushes aside the curtain hiding the bedroom, she’s ushering you backwards. You allow her to push you down until you’re sitting on the edge of the mattress and pull her to stand between your legs, pressing kisses to her stomach as you ease her underwear slowly down her legs. She kicks it off impatiently and straddles you right away, cupping your face in both hands to kiss you.

You don’t waste time, reaching down to trace the tips of your fingers over her breasts, stomach, hips, until you can’t wait another moment. She’s so wet that your fingers slip over her uselessly when you try to find purchase, but even if your coordination isn’t all there her eyes flutter closed and she lets out a shaky breath.

“That okay?” you murmur, studying her face as her cheeks pink and she bites her lip, pressing closer until your noses nudge together.

She kisses you in response, gasping into your mouth when you draw delicate circles between her legs, until she pulls away to catch her breath. “Sorry,” she huffs. “It’s been a while.”

It’s a silly thing to apologize for, but it’s such a Laura thing to say that you feel your chest swell with sudden affection. “It’s okay,” you murmur, and catch her lips, pulling her close and kissing her deeply. You draw your fingers through her until she’s squirming in your lap, thighs trembling where they bracket your hips.

She rolls her body into you, asking for more, and you circle around her entrance until she nods desperately and you slip inside, shivering at the sound that escapes her. She grinds into you, searching for friction and you indulge her at once, adding a second finger as you press your palm against her clit. She whimpers and her kisses turn sloppy until she breaks away from your lips and her head falls to rest against your shoulder.

You sweep her hair away from her neck with your free hand and attach your lips to her neck, sucking hard and she bucks into you, hips rising and falling erratically as she rides your hand. You circle around her nipple before pinching it between your fingers, and you must have caught her by surprise because she sinks her teeth sharply into your neck, a yelp muffled against your skin.

The idea that she likes a little bit of roughness only spurs you on. You nip at her jawline and she presses impossibly closer to your body, her moans hot in the crook of your neck. You can tell that she’s close, so you wrap an arm around her lower back and pull her down, hard, onto the hand between her thighs. She comes only seconds later, and you work her through it gently until she relaxes and sags against you, her lips softer now as she kisses over what’s sure to be a spectacular bruise on your neck.

You wait with her for a while until she takes a breath and sits back enough for you to remove your hand. A subtle blush graces her cheeks and spreads down to her chest, and she looks so perfect that you kiss her reflexively, an involuntary hum escaping you when she slips her tongue deftly into your mouth.

She’s such a good kisser that you don’t realize you’re on your back until she’s hovering over you with the beginning of a smirk playing at the side of her mouth, her hands wandering underneath you to unclip your bra and discard it onto the pile of clothes on the floor.

She undresses you slowly and purposefully, and the kiss she presses to your lips moments later is tender and close-mouthed, sweet in a way that you’ve never experienced before in a situation like this.

She breaks the kiss and shuffles downward, teasing her lips over your chest until you fist your hand in her hair with a groan and she takes your nipple into her mouth. She scrapes her teeth over it and you arch up into her with a hiss, struggling to grip the skin of her back where it’s slick with a thin sheen of sweat. You feel her chuckle against you; the vibration of it mixed with the lazy strokes of her tongue over your nipple is suddenly almost too much, and you drag her back up to your mouth.

She rolls off of you and you follow until you’re face to face beside each other. Her warm hands cup your breasts and she palms them gently before reaching down to draw your leg over her hip, scooting closer until your legs tangle together. She nibbles at your bottom lip and traces her nails over and over the back of your thigh, teasing closer to where you need her with each pass.

“Laura,” you groan, past the point of caring how embarrassing it may be to beg, too caught up in wanting her. “Please.”

You feel her grin against your mouth and she concedes, dipping between your legs, and every breath of air in your lungs escapes you. She rolls her fingers through you, pulling your clit softly between them and then more firmly, and you wrap your leg around her waist with a shudder.

“Fuck,” you choke; no one, ever, pulls these reactions from you, makes you feel like the responses of your body are no longer under your control.

She nudges you into another kiss, but it wanes after only a moment so you pull back to look at her. “You okay?” you ask, a moment of concern before she leans in close.

“I wanna go down on you,” she husks, and it’s so unexpected and so dirty and you can feel the blush burning its way across your cheeks already. “Can I?” she giggles, eyes bright, and who are you to deny such palpable excitement?

You hesitate though, just for a moment. You’re...weird, about letting people do that to you. It feels almost too intimate, too vulnerable. A grand total of one previous partner had been given the green light to that particular activity, and only then after more than a month of sleeping together.

But somehow—you trust Laura. So you nod.

She spends a long time kissing down your body, lingering around your hipbones, and you can tell she’s enjoying herself because she gives no indication of hurrying the process along even when you shift impatiently underneath her. Her hands splay over your knees, guiding them more than wide enough for her to settle between them. Sharp teeth graze over and over the skin of your inner thighs, hard enough that you know you’ll find marks there later, and the thought of that alone makes you tremble.

Your fingers twine through her hair, pulling it back so you can see her face again and watching as her lips build the heat beneath your skin until you’re so ruined for her that you feel tears pricking at the backs of your eyes.  
“Please,” you whisper, and then her mouth is on you, holding nothing back.

Her tongue is soft and pliant and so gentle, as if she knows that this is a big deal for you. She lets the roll of your hips take the lead, waiting patiently while you sort yourself out, but as soon your fingers loosen in her hair as a silent relinquishment of control, she takes over eagerly.

Just how she manages to be this good in bed is a mystery but you certainly aren’t complaining, especially not when two fingers slip inside you slowly, up to the knuckle until you’re gasping her name with every heaving breath. She beckons them forward and your body bows upwards again in response, legs shaking as they close around her ears. She pushes them back apart, meeting your gaze wickedly before she gives a long, slow lick over you, pushes in deep, and you’re hopelessly gone.

-

Half an hour later her head is still pillowed on your thigh, fingers tracing idle patterns behind your knee. She gazes up at you, her eyes sleepy and adoring, reaching up for your hand until your fingers tangle together. “You good?” she asks quietly, voice raspy and low. 

You nod and her mouth begins to wander again, but you give a tug to her hand; she’d just given you three orgasms in a row and at this point all you can think about is how you’re dying to know what she tastes like.

You haul her up and away with some difficulty—she’d apparently been having at least a good a time as you. Her noise of protest dies in her throat, however, when you whisper “c’mere” and don’t stop pulling at her until her thighs bracket your head and you can lower her to meet your mouth.

You instantly love the way she tastes and you open your mouth against her, flicking your tongue slowly as you try to learn what she likes. She quivers when you flatten your tongue, and she gasps and writhes when you seal your mouth over her and suck, hard.

“Carmilla, fuck,” she cries, falling forward until her arm is grasping the headboard, her other hand flying down to cup your jaw. “Don’t stop.”

You wouldn’t dream of stopping, not when she’s grinding desperately against your tongue and her legs are trembling so violently you’re a little worried she’s going to collapse. She stays barely upright, mumbling curses in between unsteady breaths until she comes apart with a drawn out moan, her blunt nails leaving shallow half-moons in the skin of your neck.

Her fingers stroke gently over the marks a minute later, once she’s climbed off of you with shaky legs and settled to lie beside you. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs with a small frown. “Did I hurt you?”

“No,” you assure her, touched by her concern, and she buries her face in your shoulder with a relieved sigh, her fingertips tracing over the small marks until they fade.

You assume she’s fallen asleep until she scrapes her fingers down your belly a few minutes later. You shake your head with a laugh, intercepting her hand and dropping a kiss to her knuckles.

“Did I break you?” she smirks, bumping her nose with yours, and you laugh sleepily.

“Maybe a little bit,” you say, wrapping an arm around her small waist and pulling her close. She snuggles against you, and your words tickle the top of her head when you amend: “Just give me ten minutes for a power nap and then I’m all yours.”

“Deal,” she says, pulling back to accept the grateful kiss that you offer. Her tongue traces lightly over your bottom lip, just once, before she whispers, “And for whatever it’s worth, you broke me too.”

-

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr @strivxng


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